I will save the author's notes till the end except to say thank you to AriadneO, who beta-ed this chapter like a boss!
Day 4: Decorations
Together they walked, hand in hand, along the cobbled paths that wound through the gardens. Lazily, quietly – at one point he stopped by a pretty little bush to pluck a blossom and tuck it gently behind her ear, and though winter buds often lacked the breathtaking grandeur of spring and summer, their muted hues possessed a quality of restraint that mirrored the pace of the strolling lovers.
The scene as viewed from the casements above might provoke a smile, a sigh, or a tender remark extolling the virtues of beauty and love. But upon closer view, the minutiae of Lady Mary Crawley and Sir Richard Carlisle, overlooked by the careless observer, become disturbingly apparent: the hand that gripped hers, vise-like, draining her delicate skin to a stark shade of white, her movements stiff and precise rather than flowing with their usual languid gracefulness, and the thin strip of red swelling the flesh above her ear where the blossom had grazed, small yet angry thorns adorning the stem.
"And how did you find Haxby this morning?" she asked, careful constraint meting out the words.
"Better than I anticipated. They're nearly finished with the plumbing, although the wiring won't be completed by the time we're ready to move in."
"So our nuptials are to be by candlelight. How fitting."
He pulled her closer, gave off the throaty rumble that counted as his laugh. "We'll have nothing so archaic, I can assure you. It's only the servant's quarters that need finishing. But we can spend the wedding night at Downton, if you prefer. I don't mind putting off carrying you over the threshold, as the tradition goes, until we return from our honeymoon and the improvements are completed."
"I never got the impression that you cared very much for tradition," she replied, sidestepping his implied query regarding their nuptial bed. Whatever roof she stared at as she betook her supine position as wife to Sir Richard Carlisle mattered very little to her.
"It's not only your lot, as you put it, that care for such things," he said, his grip on her hand tightening. "However hard it is for you to believe, I do want to make myself acceptable in your world. My desire is for your utmost happiness –"
My absolute submission.
"– and when at last I have you as my beloved wife –"
Your greatest possession.
"– and bring you home to Haxby and all its improvements, I hope that you'll be content there as its mistress."
Its finest ornament.
Their walk continued. The footpaths below were unchanged from her youth, cracked and jagged, but familiar. On the horizon rested a blanket of mist, soft and beautiful, but concealing what lay yonder.
Mary bowed her head at his sentiments and settled into his grasp.
Temples throbbing, Carson laid down the ledger and massaged them viciously, able to indulge in this small display of weakness in the place where only one other eye would ever see, and that eye privy to a plethora of failings that went well beyond a penchant for stress headaches.
"Mr. Carson, you're going to rub a hole in your head before you're through."
"Don't I know it," he grumbled. "What with Sir Richard's arrival and now all the preparations for Christmas – I'll never understand why people call this the happiest time of year."
"It's only those who have never been a butler that say that," Mrs. Hughes clucked. "But that's life." She grew quiet, suddenly very interested in the shade of taupe on the wall. "You'll be very busy this year with all the extra guests. I can't imagine you'll have much time to see to your own holiday affairs."
"I'd never have you pegged for a sportsman, Mrs. Hughes, but I can't escape the feeling that you're fishing for something right now."
His cheek was quelled straightaway with a single, glacial look. Flipping his eyes to the small bookcase, on which were displayed a number of glass baubles – a Christmas ornament for every year they had worked together – he pointedly said, "You needn't worry, Mrs. Hughes; I'll put aside the time I need for my Christmas shopping, just as I do every year."
She disdained in her usual way, and when he saw her smile and tut away her blush, he at last understood why people called it the happiest time of year.
The blue drawing room had always been the agreed upon location for the Christmas tree, but this year, with so many guests set to be in attendance, Lady Grantham had seen it more prudent to arrange for the celebrations to take place in the long gallery. The alterations would be minimal and hardly imposing on the staff, she'd informed Mrs. Hughes, glass of cocoa warming her dainty hand while her body lay lounging comfortably on a chaise after luncheon.
"Of course, my lady," Mrs. Hughes managed between gritted teeth. "Not at all an imposition."
Edith had been present for the exchange, perched on the sofa, previously absorbed in the demanding task of staying awake during a boring afternoon. "Perhaps I could help…?" her quiet warble barely invaded the simmering battle of wills.
"Oh, I don't think that will be necessary, Edith. Mrs. Hughes can manage, I'm sure –and of course I'll be there to help supervise."
"But I'd like to. I've felt so useless lately and–"
"If you'd like something to do, darling, then be a dear and run 'round to the Dower House. We've been so neglectful lately with all the preparations for Christmas, and Granny must be positively aching for some company."
Edith doubted her grandmother ever ached for anything, least of all unsolicited visitors, but she acquiesced anyway, as was her wont, and in short order was seated across from her grandmother, small pastry in hand, feeling the ache in her torso diminish with the benefit of sustenance and a friendly ear.
"Edith, my dear girl. What brings you by?"
"Nothing, really. The house is in turmoil, you see, what with the new decorating schemes, and Mama thought I'd do better to visit you then toddle about underfoot." The words poured out, surprising Edith with how much easier they flowed when with her grandmother. Perhaps it was because of the Dowager's own proclivity towards speaking her mind. Perhaps it was because Granny actually listened to her.
"I'll ask you to dispense with that woebegone nonsense now that you're with me," Violet warned. "Now Edith, don't pull a face; it's extremely childish and highly unattractive. You may be pulling your hair out with tedium now, but mark my words, you'll be happier once the house is full of people again."
"Will I? Won't having more people around just grant me more opportunities to be ignored? Overlooked? Shoved into the background like a potted plant? Invisible as the wallpaper?"
Violet gave a wicked rap of her cane on the hardwood floor, a hairsbreadth away from doing the same to her granddaughter's head. What had she just said about despairing? Did the girl never listen to herself? It was all bemoaning and tedious self-pity – no wonder no one wanted to spend time with her. But those admonishments would never do, not with family, and instead she opted for a gentler approach.
"Come now, my girl, there'll be a few in attendance whom I know carry a vested interest in you," Violet said slyly, eliciting a shy smile – of course Edith had heard that Sir Anthony and Evelyn Napier would be of the party – "and even if nothing should come of it, there is always your brother-in-law."
Edith frowned. "Granny, Sir Richard is not my brother-in-law yet."
"Nor shall he ever be, if I have my way – but enough of that. I was not referring to that odious man. I meant the other one. The Irish one."
"You mean Branson?" She pronounced his name as almost an oath. "The chauffeur?" Edith clarified, feeling she should be offended. "I can't see what I would have in common with him, besides knowing how to drive and caring for Sybil."
"You'd be surprised," Violet told her over the brim of her cup. "You're a writer, he's a writer –"
"I would hardly call myself a writer, Granny!"
"What of those little snippets you used to produce when you were younger? I remember a particularly intriguing essay, Attributes of the First Daughter, or some such nonsense."
"The Plight of the Middle Child," Edith mumbled, acutely aware of the butler shuffling about the sideboard.
"Yes, that's the one!" Edith looked mortified, and Violet wondered if she had pressed too far. "Well I'm sure you haven't retired your pen for all these years. You simply have chosen to no longer share them."
Event the hint of encouragement was enough for Edith to begin crawling back out of her shell, and Violet decided to give her one final push.
"And I for one think it is high time you did!"
It was times like these that Robert Crawley truly felt the absence of his heir: the ladies dismissed while the gentleman loitered, and instead of solitude, he was forced to bear the company of his soon to be son-in-law.
Sir Richard sipped at his port.
"After the wedding, I'd like to take another tour of the county, to see if there might be any more estates worth purchasing,"
Robert exhaled a breath of cigar smoke.
"You must have quite a bit of liquid funds to be able to do that."
"Yes, I do," he replied chuckling, a darker meaning outlining his words. "Some might say more money than God – and only slightly less powerful."
"I find that rather remarkable considering how many have gone belly up in recent years. The war was very hard for us all."
"Hard on some, perhaps, but kind to others," Sir Richard replied, slightly tilting his glass in a kind of half-toast.
Robert felt more than heard the underlying notes in Richard's words. They nibbled at the back of his mind, but he shoved them off before they had time to sink their teeth in. Stubbing out his cigar and with a last gulp of port he rose from his chair.
"I think we had best go in. It's the tree lighting tonight and they'll want to start soon," Robert suggested. He'd never been a curious man, and life was often much less complicated when one chose not to pursue a matter that was none of their concern.
Anna gripped Daisy's shoulder with all the might of a career linen-bearer, barely restraining the giddy kitchen maid from outright twirling. But Daisy's excitement could not be contained by such paltry restraints for long, and it was only a few minutes before she managed to break free, squealing, "This is my favorite part of Christmas – the tree lighting!" with a clumsy pirouette.
The staff was assembled at a respectful distance behind their superiors, partaking in the relaxed joviality and bickering that only comes with working with the same set of faces for too many years.
"And what part is your least favorite, I wonder?" Mrs. Patmore pondered aloud.
The question weighed down Daisy's antics with pause, a heavy contemplation that concluded with, "Maybe all the extra cooking? It's like I don't have even one minute without baking another pie or preparing another grand meal. And all them pheasants they bring down, filled up with buckshot, and I have to spend hours and hours plucking them out till me hands want to fall off."
"It wasn't one of those questions you're supposed to answer, Daisy – the type we like to call 'rhetorical'." Thomas punctuated his needling with a puff of the cheeks and a vacant burst of air that sailed out of his lips, belatedly realizing he wasn't actually smoking.
"Blowing bubbles for the children?" came O'Brien, and seeing rebuttal kindling in Thomas' eye, she hastened to add, "Don't bother answering – one of those 'rhetorical' types of questions."
"Well I agree with Daisy. I think it's a fine tradition, and I've always enjoyed it," Anna chimed, prompting a round of bland agreement from the rest of the faceless housemaids.
"It's nothing but a big nuisance and a waste of my time when I have precious little to give. As if I wasn't already done in with preparing a week's worth of dinners for a house full of people."
"Aw, Mrs. Patmore, don't be such a spoilsport! You can't dislike it as much as you say – no one can! Just look at the fine decorations, and all them pretty lights!"
And Daisy was far from exaggerating. The long gallery was a room transformed: windows lined with garlands of holly, their sills dotted with votives; colored paper chains strung up around the mouldings; the chandelier above dressed in ivy; and in the vortex of the swirl of red and green: a noble fir that stretched to the ceiling, dripping with colored glass, a spiral of unlit lights ascending to the gilded star of David at the top. It was charming and evocative, a sight that could not fail to bring inspiration to all.
To most.
"Trees are not meant to be indoors. It's an unassailable fact!" the Dowager was heard to decry. Stood at her grandmother's elbow, mesmerized by the abundance of leaves and berries, Lady Mary jolted at the pronouncement. As a rule she preferred to exude indifference to all things festive, but even she was incapable of stopping her pea-sized heart from fluttering.
"Perhaps you're right, but without the tree it wouldn't seem half as much like Christmas," Lady Mary put in mildly, as close to rhapsodizing as was possible for her.
From behind his daughter Lord Grantham extolled, "Well I think it looks magnificent. You've really outdone yourself this year, Cora."
"Thank you, darling," Cora said absently, busy arranging bodies into a makeshift semi-circle, eager to begin that most illustrious of all Downton Abbey traditions: the sing-a-long. "Now we really must begin before it gets too late. Edith?"
Edith gently stroked the keys of the piano and gave the pedals a few practice taps. The tinkling introduction of the familiar tune heralded the start of the singing, sharps and flats floating in the air and mingling together in discord. No one in the room had properly trained voices, Lady Mary perhaps having the most natural skill, but the tones were warm and not entirely unpleasant as they sang the first verse together
The holly and the ivy, when they are both full grown,
Of all the trees that are in the wood, the holly bears the crown.
Lord and Lady Grantham presided, leading the choir of voices in spirit (if not with proficiency), an atonal blend of soprano and baritone. Cora noticed for the first time, in all their years of marriage, the disunity of their voices, and it disquieted her.
Oh, the rising of the sun and the running of the deer,
The playing of the merry organ, sweet singing in the choir.
At the first chorus, two bodies sunk into the background. They were drawn together, like two lonely planets, the only ones with enough sense not to participate in such treacly madness.
"I knew there must be at least one rational person left in the room," Violet said. "I should have known it would be you."
Thomas smiled at the praise, feeling complimented despite himself.
The holly bears a blossom as white as lily flower,
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ to be our sweet savior
The words were familiar enough to let her mind wander. One Christmas, well before the war, William had surprised her by slipping his sweaty palm into hers, cheeks aflame, and though last Christmas she'd pushed through the holiday as though William Mason had never existed, now Daisy thought of that moment, and smiled.
The holly bears a berry as red as any blood,
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ to do poor sinners good.
Ebony and ivory keys bent to her will, banging out the notes as they plodded through the carol. She both admired and envied the keyboard and their contrast of colors – familiar strains that echoed in the complexion and tresses of her elder sister – that would always be more strikingly beautiful than a flaming bob of curls.
The holly bears a prickle as sharp as any thorn,
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ on Christmas Day in the morn.
Anna doubled her volume – as loud as she could – to fill the empty space of his voice. With every step and every smile and every word his absence pierced her, but this night she was determined to be happy, because it wouldn't be long before she celebrated her first Christmas as his wife.
The holly bears a bark as bitter as any gall,
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ for to redeem us all.
The last verse spilled sweetly from her lips, the songbird of the family, Lady Mary Crawley – soon to be Mary Carlisle.
Mary Carlisle.
Her song faltered. The words tasted awful.
In the fog of memory, she caught faint glimpses of a time when she could have married, and been happy, without changing her home or her name. Mary Crawley she is and Mary Crawley she could have remained, and the fact that she had ruined everything was perhaps the bitterest taste of all.
Oh, the rising of the sun and the running of the deer,
The playing of the merry organ, sweet singing in the choir.
The last refrain reverberated through the hall. All were eager to witness the first usage of the new modern lights, recently arrived from London, and Lord Grantham, with exaggerated flair, reached over to flick on the switch. The tree alighted in soft electric glow to an anthem of awws and ooohs and a smattering of half-hearted applause. Some were giddy, some were lonely, some felt the sting of life stab painfully, but bathed in the warm hues of the illuminated tree, it was finally beginning to feel like Christmas.
FYI I did do a modicum of research to make sure that electric tree lights were around by our time period, but that modicum did not extend to discovering the likelihood of them being used in a place like Downton, so if it is unbearably historically inaccurate I apologize.
I'll also put a link in my profile for any who are interested and who haven't ever heard the carol The Holly and the Ivy.
Woot woot! 0.25 of the way there, you guys!
Again, thank you for all the lovely reviews. You are a batch of dear souls!
